


caress

by Anecdoche (so_psychso)



Series: self indulgent mechs oneshots [1]
Category: The Mechanisms (Band)
Genre: Dom/sub, Finger Sucking, Frottage, Hair Kink, Hand & Finger Kink, Implied Sexual Content, Kneeling, M/M, Mouth Kink, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sensation Play, Trans Male Character, mostly implied but yk, sub tim, trans tim, which might be expounded on
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:40:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25662982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/so_psychso/pseuds/Anecdoche
Summary: Such simplicity in touch, and if wielded right, such lovely devastation, too.
Relationships: Drumbot Brian/Gunpowder Tim
Series: self indulgent mechs oneshots [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1860787
Comments: 15
Kudos: 75





	caress

**Author's Note:**

> oh we are soft 2nite, lads

“What can I do.”

Not a question.

“I—d’know.”

Not an answer.

And not anything that hasn’t been agreed upon already. Not explicitly, anyway, because that takes too much time and too much risk. Nuance is better for these purposes, a safer alternative to vulnerability when that’s all Tim needs in the world. To give himself over and fear nothing without ever letting the facade fall quite completely.

Because Brian is the one Tim comes to when he needs something quieter, a subdued reprieve from the clatter of the crew or the inundation of mortality when it fails, once more, to leave any lasting mark. 

It’s Brian he seeks out when he’s blown half an arm away and shot Marius (again) for making too many comments while needlessly tending his wounds.

It’s Brian who never asks, never tells, and never lets Tim tear himself down to anywhere that he can’t endure. 

It’s Brian who’s as soft as Tim never knows he needs until he’s brought to his knees, dazed by such simple touch as a palm to the cheek, or lips to his fluttered shut eyes. Then those hands might roam everywhere, endearing infinite grace as they take Tim apart from flimsy clothes to the very core of his chest, his shaking thighs, the belly deep moans that roll out of him by whatever diligence Brian employs. Often fingers, always tongue, and only his cock if Tim begs hard enough for it, but the logistics oft get messy and scrambled and forgotten, the perfunctory intent ceding to more organic clumsiness. Of limbs and sighs and grasps and groans and _deeper, please_ and always those hands, cold and metallic though they may be, yet always with their inviolable tenderness.

Yes, it’s Brian he needs, so maybe the things tearing shrapnel through his head will quieten for at least another fortnight, and sleep might begrudge him one or two less nightmares.

He never asks, though a million questions suggest themselves in the space Tim leaves at his approach, that no man’s land of their mutual discomfort—not in the situation itself, no, but he doesn’t ask, and Tim doesn’t tell, and the context has to go somewhere, doesn’t it? But, still, he doesn’t ask.

“Come here,” Brian says, instead, his face belying nothing so fond as his stern tone.

Shivering, Tim obeys, lets Brian welcome him sans embrace, those hands—those lovely, wonderful hands—sojourning immediately for his face, his jaw, cupping it, thumbs mapping the angles of his cheeks, brushing inward to knead gently the heavy bags beneath Tim’s eyes. 

“What can I do,” said again, though this time more for formality than edification.

“Make me feel,” Tim breathes, already slumping forward into Brian’s touch. “Want to remember…” he trails off, Brian’s thumbs working up and over his temples, easing a cascade of live-wire shivers down the sides of his throat.

“Want to–to remember how m’yours.”

Were his eyelids less composed of lead already, Tim might have enjoyed seeing the effect drawn over Brian’s stoically admiring expression. Less emotionally taxing, though, and much more promising of the relief Tim’s after, he finds himself being pushed to his knees. Not mean. Not clever. Just that perfect bit of pressure to send him trembling, supplicant within seconds, and panting into Brian’s palms as his chin is held upright.

“You’re always mine,” Brian soothes.

“Still need reminding,” Tim rebuffs with a sigh, peeking open his eyes.

Brian’s smile greets him, barely there and untenably enamored. All the while his fingers work over the tensions in his jaw, beneath it, till he’s insinuated one hand laxly around Tim’s throat, the other skating up and over his brow, nestling a fist in his hair.

“I suppose you do,” Brian says. “Exactly how much have you forgotten, then?”

“Mm…” Tim lets his eyes fall closed again, basking in each point of contact, eager for how it might evolve with just his say so. 

He does not, however, lie. Never does with Brian. Never needs to. He can read Tim like bloody scripture, besides, and there’s nothing so crushing as disappointing him.

“Not too much,” Tim finally settles on, ensuring to keep his tone as neutral as possible.

Brian just hums considerately, drumming his fingers over Tim’s throat and scratching lightly at his scalp before replying, “Been some time since I’ve had your cunt, hasn’t it, love?”

Tim shudders, heat unfurling between his legs, but still his nerves bloom brightest where Brian’s laid his hands, and, well, honesty and all that.

“Yes,” he manages, swallowing as Brian squeezes carefully. “B-but, I don’t, ah, think—”

“Not now?” Brian finishes for him, and Tim nods, grateful for the mercy of relinquishing his agency to one who knows him best.

“Of course, we’ll just take things slow.”

“Thank you,” Tim mumbles.

“Besides,” Brian continues, bringing both hands to Tim’s hair, and thoroughly tangling them through each impossible ringlet. “You’re much too lovely to ruin right now.”

Sans the steadying lariat of Brian’s fingers around his throat, Tim’s free to let his mouth fall slack with a stilted sigh, and, eagerly, he lets Brian guide his head back, till the hair gathered atop his shoulders falls away, draping down his back for Brian to peruse and stroke. 

“You might consider a few centuries as a deity, love,” Brian murmurs. “I’d worship you on beauty, alone.”

“Nm… ‘s not your place.”

Dragging open his eyes, Tim smiles lazily, nuzzling against the palm still closest to his cheek. 

“Suppose you are prettiest on your knees.”

Briefly, Tim basks in the heat of the flush that spills across his nose, and spreads his legs just a little wider. Just for a show.

Wordlessly pleased, Brian takes a single step closer, slotting his shin between Tim’s thighs.

“Oh…” Tim breathes, a shock of sugary warmth beating low in his stomach.

“Beautiful,” Brian insists, again, the deliciously cool pads of his fingers scraping over Tim’s scalp, working out and down, following the strands they gather through every curl and snag to the end. Then back up again, a new handful, a new and wonderful pressure from Tim’s temples to his nape, till his head’s nothing so much as ivory and white noise, suffused with sweetness and the skittering cascades of shivers. 

“I… nm… _hmn_ …” Nonsense things, sounds that mean nothing, but Tim distantly recalls just how much Brian enjoys hearing him, hearing anything, so Tim gives what he can from what little coherence remains.

He’s about as lucid enough to actually pay a proper bit of thanks, but the second he gets his tongue working, it’s being pinned down, Brian having slipped a thumb past his lips and into his mouth, proper.

“It’s okay,” Brian says. “I know. You don’t need to say anything, love.”

A lie. Because Tim is never so satisfied as when he’s a babbling mess at Brian’s behest. When he’s little else save a suspension of sensation, his arse, his cunt, his mouth, full and used and sore, and all he can give back are ruined syllables, those nothing words to those everything hands and lips. Everything, _everything_ that Brian gives him.

Even now. Even as it’s so comparatively little. Just hands in his hair, and his mouth, stroking his tongue, obscenely fond, implicative in all the best ways, leaving his jaw hot and aching at the hinge, wanting of a proper weight and girth to stretch him out. Wanting more. Wanting this. Wanting only this, forever, or as long as Brian deems him worthy, which would be further still, because he fails to ever hold Tim beyond anything save the utmost regard and adoration, would see each sun burned out a thousand times over before he ever denied Tim a single second’s reprieve from absolute, unbearable pleasure.

Tim does listen, in the end. Doesn’t say anything. Can’t, for the two, then three fingers exploring his mouth with alternate thrusts, as mean as a wasp might please itself to sting a rose, just that right side of too much pressure prying him open, demanding his exposure. Rewarding in kind. Letting Tim reward himself even, as admonishments fail to arrive when he ruts himself against Brian’s leg, a few messy moments of friction until he comes, a lightning strike of sharp pleasure yet still so incomparable to the fingers in his hair, atop his tongue. He snaps closed his mouth at his peak, sucking furiously on Brian’s thumb, bobbing his head, throwing his curls into wild disarray from the neat waves Brian had brushed them to. 

A wild thing, he is, and tamed by those hands, and the mouth that follows, Brian kneeling before him and moving in swiftly, his want laid bare and ambrosial as he fills Tim’s mouth with his own unanswered bliss.

“Have me,” Tim pleads, their foreheads leaned together, their breaths shared.

“In a moment, love,” Brian rebuffs gently. “Just let me enjoy you like this.”

Inhaling shakily, Tim concedes, letting them merely be together for however long Brian might wish to keep them here. The touch returns, indelibly skittish—Brian always is after he feels he’s indulged something too far. Tim hasn’t yet the resolve to clarify he’s more than fine being Brian’s sensory surrogate. He’ll plumb the depths of that conversation someday, but for now lets Brian reconvene at his own pace. Till his hands are sure again, and his mouth is wicked against Tim’s.

“I’d like to fuck you now,” he says.

“And I’d like that very much,” Tim answers in kind. 

There’s still time to forestall, though, to luxuriate in each other’s presence, which both seem keener to enjoy for a second more.

The hands remain a constant, even later when Tim hasn’t enough wherewithal to know much beyond Brian’s name as it pours from his pleading lips. They’re there to hold him down, to twist and stroke and strike and soothe and ground, even as everything culminates and Tim can’t feel beyond the wrecking spasms of his body played to ecstasy. And they’re there after, well beyond the moment of their combined climax, once more charting their course for his hair, his clavicle, across his lips, down his chest. 

“Beautiful,” Brian says, over and over and over again.

And only in his embrace has Tim ever felt so certain and so safe. 

**Author's Note:**

> as the series tag would imply, this is part of a bunch of little oneshots I'll occasionally be putting out there. requests are v much welcome, though pls keep it to m/m pairings bc like, as a gay dude, that's obvs what i'm comf writing etc


End file.
